


A Study in Magic

by teamrocket



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Crossover, Gen, Kid!Lock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-03 23:17:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamrocket/pseuds/teamrocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are wizards-in-training who attend Hogwarts. Yet, trouble seems to follow them, no matter where he goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Letter from Hogwarts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out one day that, not only his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, and his whole family is a wizard, but he is too! The two enroll in Hogwarts, and on the train, they encounter two other first-years that Sherlock seems to know.

 John crawled into the small opening in the bush to the hollow space under the thin layer of leaves only large enough to accommodate two eleven-year-old boys. It was his hidey-hole, one that he shared with his best friend and neighbor, and it had been since he was four. It was getting smaller now as they were growing larger, or at least it had been before it suddenly expanded one day, as if by magic. He had been squeezed tightly in a ball, pressed against the fence, wishing that Sherlock could still fit in the hole with him when the space randomly cleared out. When he had eagerly showed Sherlock, his friend looked at him oddly, a sort of wildly-happy that he had only seen on his logical, collected friend's face a few times.

Of course. It all made sense now. Sunlight filtered between the leaves, the hole dimly lit by the patches of sun, enough light to reread a worn letter, perhaps, although John had long since memorized it by heart. He didn't normally commit everything to memory – that was more of Sherlock's area – but after rereading the letter so many times, the words had simply stuck in his brain. John wanted to tell his friend of his accomplishment, share the great feat of memorization with him, but he couldn't; the letter said not to tell or show anyone.

Suddenly, Sherlock's face poked through the hole. John jumped and scrambled to hide the letter, hastily stuffing it behind him. Sherlock smirked as he crawled into the space, sitting next to him. He shook his head, his dark curls bobbing up and down.

“John, there's no need to hide your Hogwarts letter from me; I got one too. Mycroft's been at Hogwarts for years.” John's eyes widened as he absorbed what that meant.

“So I don't have to leave you?” Sherlock stared at him for a second and then burst into overjoyed laughter – his blue eyes twinkling – and hugged John tightly.

“No, you're not that lucky. I get to keep you.”

*

Mycroft gritted his teeth, slowing down his brisk stride. He straightened his yellow and black tie so that the badger crest was visible.

“Let's move it,” he hissed to the two eleven-year-olds, jerking his brother's signature scarf. As Hufflepuff Head Boy, one would assume that one wouldn't be subjected to this level of public mortification, but no.

“Yes, Mummy would be quite pleased if a little birdy were to tell her that you tripped me and fractured my skull in the middle of King's Cross,” Sherlock replied coolly. He pushed his luggage cart forward, gliding along with it. John, who was sitting on Sherlock's trunk with his friend's skull on his lap, squealed as they accelerated. John's parents were Muggles and had entrusted Mycroft with their son. At the time, Mycroft had agreed wholeheartedly, not realizing that his brother's sole playmate would make the already insolent devil even more impertinent.

“Come on, Mycroft. However important you may think you are, the train's not going to agree enough to wait for you,” Sherlock called out. Mycroft muttered a string of expletives. A plump, red-headed lady nearby glared daggers at him, pulling her two snickering sons, who Mycroft recognized as Gryffindors, away.

*

“Is Mycroft angry at us?” John asked, turning his big brown eyes on Sherlock. The Head Boy had dumped them in an empty compartment and abandoned them the first second he got. Sherlock snorted.

“No, he's just a pompous git,” Sherlock said bitterly. His new pet, a tall, sleek, and dark owl, hooted in agreement. “See? Arthur agrees with me.” The duo fell silent as they watched Arthur hoot around in his cage. Sherlock could feel anxiety just rolling off of John. His hands were trembling slightly, his facial expression indicated that he was preoccupied, and his current behavior contradicted his usual chipper self. Sherlock weighed the pros and cons of breaking the tense silence himself with waiting for his friend to bring it up himself.

“John,” he finally spoke, “you're worried about your sorting, aren't you?”

John blinked, wide-eyed, like he always die at Sherlock's deductions except when they annoyed him. “It's that obvious, huh?” he smiled ruefully. “It's just that I've never really done anything magical. My parent's aren't even magical. What if they made a mistake?”

“John, it doesn't matter if you're a Muggle-born – that is, a wizard with nonmagical parents. Tons of people are like you. And you enlarged our space in the bushes. Is that not magic? Besides,” Sherlock added, trying to be reassuring, “wizards don't make this big of mistakes. They would've erased your memories by now.”

“Yeah, but that's not really much magic,” John said, annoyed.

“Of course it is. You wanted to be able for us both to fit in there, so it happened. And that one time you spilled jam on your new jumper and were worried about your mum scolding you, it vanished by its own, remember?”

“What about you, then? How did you first know?”

“Oh, well, I've always known. My parents are both wizards, and I've always assumed that I wasn't a squib – someone with magical parents but no magic. There was this one time when I was four – right before you moved next door – when Mycroft hung my scarf in a tree, and the next thing I knew, the scarf was back around my neck, and Mycroft was the one in the tree. Oh, and there was this one time when I tripped while holding Skully, and it hovered midair instead of breaking.” Sherlock picked up his skull, which was seated right beside him, and cradled it to his chest.

“I remember once, when Mycroft was ten, he somehow summoned a cake from the kitchen,” Sherlock added. John, he noticed, was so immersed in his stories that he had forgotten his anxiety, so he continued entertaining his shorter friend with his tales.

The train chugged closer to the school, but the two didn't seem to notice. They remained seemingly unmoved, except John was now scooping handfuls of strawberry jam into his mouth as he listened to his friend regale him with tales. Suddenly, the door to their compartment slid open with a noisy bang, and a boy and a girl – first-years, Sherlock noted, from their generic, uncrested robes, or at least he would've if he didn't already know them – appeared in the doorway. The boy was taller than John but shorter than Sherlock, on the pale side, but again, not as pale as Sherlock, and had neat, dark hair. The girl was mixed-raced, her skin a milky white-brown, with curly caramel ringlets and disapproving, pursed lips.

“We're nearing the school; you ought to be changing soon,” the boy said matter-of-factually, sticking out his hand.

Sherlock cut him off. “Yes, we are quite aware of that. And there's no use in introducing yourself, Anderson, or Donovan, as we already know who you are,” he snapped, narrowing his eyes as they instantaneously shifted from warm to steely.

Anderson and Donovan looked taken aback, while John simply looked abashed. He glanced at him, shooting him a look. _Sherlock, not now. Play nicely_ , it seemed to say. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted, earning him a look of pure disgust from Sally. John shook Anderson's hand.

“Well, we haven't met,” he smiled. “John Watson, pleasure. This is my friend Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes, we've met,” Sherlock drawled, boredom and irritation seeping into his voice. He waited for them to leave, but they didn't. Sherlock's eyes flashed as John started to socialize with the two. He was his John, not theirs.

“I see that you've a girlfriend by the dry patches on your hands, as well as the ink stains. A Muggle, must likely, since Sally doesn't know about her, which means that she isn't here. Yet, your body language suggests that you're not above cheating, as you are leaning towards here, touching her hand every so often, and speaking for her as if you're a collective unit.” John, Anderson, and Donovan all looked at him with various degrees of horror. “What? It's true.”

“Freak,” Donovan uttered contemptuously, looking at him as if he were something she found under her shoe. Anderson hastily took her hand and fled the compartment, but the closed compartment door did not completely block out the shouts that ensued. Sherlock smiled, satisfied, and then noticed John looking at him accusingly.

“Why did you have to do that? I was making new friends!”

“Why would you want to make friends with Anderson? He's a complete dolt and the bane of my existence. He serves purely to irk me with his idiocy, an Donovan is no better!” Sherlock cried out, defensive. He was simply doing John a favor.

“So I take it that you've met?” John asked, unimpressed with Sherlock's act of chivalry.

“Yeah, Mummy decided that I needed 'friends' that wasn't you because, of course, we didn't know that you had a squib in your family somewhere down the line, so she conspired against me and forced Mycroft and I on 'play dates' with other wizarding children. Mycroft, ever the diplomat, took it off fine with a fifth-year named Greg – perhaps too well – but I loathed the lot of them.”

“You didn't hit it off with any of them?” John asked, now concerned for Sherlock. There had been whispered rumors in the neighborhood that John had overheard about his friend being a potential sociopath. He had known his friend for years now, but he had never thought that he was Sherlock's only friend.

“Well, I can tolerate some of them, but Donovan and _especially_ Anderson,” he emphasized, “are the most blatant wastes of oxygen that I've ever had the misfortune to encounter.”

John nodded, pretending to agree with him. Secretly, he didn't think they were that bad and decided that he'd take his friend's opinions with a grain of salt for the meantime and form his own. After all, there was no harm in being nice, right?


	2. The Sorting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first-years get sorted, and John is nervous about what house he'd be placed in.

 The first-years were marched into the Great Hall in a long line, sorted alphabetically. Sherlock had attempted to stay with John at the end of the line, but Professor McGonagall, the strict, imposing woman leading them, caught Sherlock slinking to the back. John's worries over his sorting returned with Sherlock's departure, and the stomach-turning jitters made him wish that he hadn't eaten so much jam and, later, pastries, on the train. The line moved forward until all the first-years were in the Great Hall. John gasped as he saw the ceiling for the first time. It was enchanted to reflect the night sky, and the stars shimmered and sparkled just like the ones at home.

A voice over his head spoke, “Beautiful, is it not?” John flinched, surprised. He looked up and gasped. There was a transparent, curly-haired man with a large mustache hovering by his ear. The spirit chuckled at his reaction.

“Ah, so you're a Muggle-born, eh? I always find delight out of Muggle-borns seeing a ghost for the first time. Nervous about your sorting? Don't worry; the sorting hat sees all. He'll place you in the house that will best suit you.” The ghost drifted away to find more Muggle-borns before John could ask him more about the sorting process.

Professor McGonagall placed an old, battered wizard hat on a three-legged stool in the middle of the room, signaling the official beginning of the sorting. The entire room quieted down to a hushed murmur. There were four long tables of upperclassmen, divided by houses, looking at the first years with interest, and John felt his nerves, which were originally contained in his stomach, overtaking his whole body. The sorting hat began singing, but John was too nervous to pay any attention to it. He became aware that his hands were trembling uncontrollably, but he couldn't seem to stop them. Professor McGonagall stepped up to the podium and unraveled a large scroll.

“Adler, Irene” A pale, dark-haired girl stepped up. She looked like she was feeling the complete opposite as John was, seemingly calm almost to the extent of bored. John knew without even looking that Sherlock was beyond the point of boredom. Of course he'd be; he'd had his whole life to ponder what house he'd best belong in, and Sherlock was never wrong. He only needed a confirmation from the sorting hat. The girl placed the hat on her head. After a moment, it bellowed, “Slytherin!” She hopped off the stool and joined her new housemates at the Slytherin table.

John's heart was pounding furiously against his ribs. He barely noted that Anderson was being placed in Gryffindor. As more and more stepped up, John's attention waned. He wiped his clammy, sweaty palms on his new robes. His heart now felt as if it was thumping from his throat. He felt as if he was going to throw up all over his new gray jumper.

John's ears perked up at “Donovan, Sally” who was also sorted into Gryffindor. Sherlock wouldn't be long now. He turned towards the Hufflepuff table where the elder Holmes brother was sitting and mouthed _How many more?_ Mycroft frowned at him and then held up one finger. John nodded and then turned his attention back to the sorting.

“Holmes, Sherlock” John watched carefully as Sherlock marched stiffly up to the stool. He looked even more bored than John had imagined. Sherlock lifted the hat and it just barely touched the boy's curls before the hat bellowed out, “RAVENCLAW!” John joined the Ravenclaws' applause, but hastily jammed his hands into his pockets when the bigger boy behind him, Sebastian Wilkes, frowned at him. Sherlock had a small, smug grin on his face as he joined the blue-and-copper table.

John's stomach churned again. He was torn between dread over his sorting happening soon and anxiety over it not happening yet. He tried paying attention to the sortings again.

“Hooper, Molly” Hufflepuff. John's heart beat faster. He turned towards Sherlock, who gave him a reassuring wink. There was a small buzzing sound in his ear that slowly increased in volume. He wanted to run, but his mind could not even agree on which direction. John wiped his hands on his robes again, but it did no good. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. It was always like this, in school, since his surname was near the end of the alphabet, but it was never this bad. He never felt this queasy before. Time seemed to both stand still and speed up before he reopened his eyes again.

“Patterson, Jeffrey” Ravenclaw.

“Sawyer, Sarah” Gryffindor.

“Stamford, Michael” Hufflepuff. John's heart was beating loudly; he felt as if he was going to explode. The small wisps of calm that he had managed to pretend he had vanished. There was a bomb in his chest, ticking slowly to the big finale. With each heartbeat, it grew stronger, shaking and vibrating his whole body.

Finally, big bang. “Watson, John” A great force combusted in his chest and loose bits and pieces, like shrapnel, ricocheted, producing an unpleasant tingling. He forced his legs in front of each other – left, right, until he was sitting on the stool. Tentatively he placed the threadbare hat on his head.

“Interesting,” it purred, musing. “You're bright but not significantly – not Ravenclaw, I'm sorry, You're gentle and kind, but there's something more that I sense. Bravery, a fighting spiring, a craving for adventure. Perhaps you'd make a good GRYFFINDOR!”

John could feel himself lifting the hat off his head and walking towards the Gryffindor table without making a conscious decision to do so. He felt both relieved that it was over and disappointed that he wasn't in the the same house with Sherlock. After all, someone had to keep an eye over him, and it was better John than Mycroft. Other than that, he felt surprisingly numb, as if he was in shock. He caught sight of Sherlock politely clapping for him, which he hadn't done for anyone, with a slight crestfallen expression on his face. John shot him an unhappy smile. After all, there was nothing to be done about it.

His fellow Gryffindors clapped him on the back, congratulating and welcoming him in. “Glad to have you, mate,” an older, dark-haired boy with a deep tan, as if he had vacationed in someplace tropical recently, said, firmly shaking his hand. “I'm Greg Lestrade, one of your prefects. Just find me if you need any help, alright?” John recognized his name from earlier.

“Oh, yeah, you're Mycroft's friend, aren't you? Sherlock mentioned you earlier,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Oh, did he now?” Greg said warily. John wondered if there was something about their relationship that Sherlock omitted, whether deliberately or unintentionally. They watched the last first-year, Sebastian Wilkes, finally being sorted into Slytherin.

A thin, bearded man with dazzling lavender robes and a matching hat crookedly perched on his silver-haired head stood up.

“Welcome back to another year at Hogwarts. And for those who are just joining us, welcome. I hope you all have had a splendorous summer. I, myself, tried the Muggle recreational sport of water-skiing for the first time,” he began, his bright blue eyes twinkling behind his crescent-moon shaped spectacles, which were slowly sliding down his long, crooked nose.

“Who's that man?” John whispered to the prefect sitting next to him. Lestrade looked at him oddly.

“I suppose you're a Muggle-born, then? Why, that's Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster, considered to be, arguably, the greatest wizard alive by most. He's a household name.” The ghost from earlier stuck his head out from under the table and frowned at them, pressing his finger to his lips. He motioned for them to direct their attentions to Dumbledore.

“There's no doubt that most, if not all, of you have heard the news by now: Lord Voldemort is dead. Young Harry Potter is safe and was taken in by his Muggle relatives. The world is, again, safe. That is not, however,” the tone of his voice turned sharp, “an excuse to behave recklessly. Magical laws still stand, despite Voldemort's vanquish, and the Ministry of Magic has asked me to remind you that the abuse of magic will still result in expulsion. I assume that a small number of you received warnings from the Ministry yesterday?” he said pleasantly, like he was inquiring about a new puppy.

“Putting that aside,” Dumbledore continued, “there's no doubt that many of you are hungry, so let the feast begin!” The empty tables became laden with delectable dishes, arranged so that none of the original table top could be seen. John had never seen so much food at one time, and his eyes bulged. No wonder Mycroft liked it here so much. He filled his plate with some kind of poultry with orange glaze and a magenta jam that tasted like springtime.

“Ah, are you the friend of Sherlock's that eats all the jam whenever Mycroft returns home for the holidays? Here, try dipping bread in that.” John looked up from scooping spoonfuls of jam into his mouth as Lestrade handed him some rolls.

“Thanks, but I'm good,” he tried to say with a mouthful of jam.

Sherlock appeared out of nowhere with his empty plate and sat down in the empty seat next to John. He looked at John and snorted.

“That's classy,” he remarked dryly.

“Hey,” Lestrade nudged Sherlock, reprimanding him, “go back to your table. You can't just come here whenever you like.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Piss off, Lestrade. I know for a fact that you and Mycroft do it all the time from the way his feet are positioned and where you're sitting. You picked out ahead of time a sparsely-populated part of the table to guarantee a seat for Mycroft, only he's not going to leave the Hufflepuff table now that I'm here because he thinks that it'll tarnish the Holmes name if both of us are sitting 'hiddly-diddly' – his thoughts, not mine. So now, he'll cheat on his diet and eat at least two extra servings of cake to make himself feel better. You're worth two slices of cake to him, Lestrade; how does that make you feel?”

“Fantastic! That's brilliant” John exclaimed, impressed, ignoring the last bit. The prefect only gaped at him and glanced at the elder Holmes across the room, who was, indeed, sulking over a plate piled high with various foods. Sherlock felt a surge of pride and allowed him self a small smile.

Anderson and Donovan, who were sitting nearby, glowered at Sherlock disdainfully, sniggering, which John did not notice. Sherlock opened his mouth to deliver a standard, sharp deduction, but closed it after a glance at John, still blissfully oblivious, deciding that his friend wouldn't approve of it and stop showering him with compliments. He had the next seven years to mock them, anyway. Unbeknownst to him, across the room, three pairs of eyes were watching him, analyzing his every move.


	3. Bibbidi Bobbidi Boring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have their first morning classes, and John's already made a new friend, much to Sherlock's chagrin.

Out of the seven classes that they took, John and Sherlock only had Herbology, Transfiguration, and Astronomy together. Mycroft, somehow, had known before the schedules had been distributed and had advised him to “do try to make friends,” to which Sherlock had replied with a surly “Piss off!”

John had smiled the same sad smile from the sorting and told him that he was “sure that there were other people who would appreciate him too.”

“I don't need friends,” Sherlock said dismissively, to which John simply rolled his eyes at. The two parted their ways, John with the rest of the Gryffindor first-years to Potions, while Sherlock, Charms.

Sherlock sat alone at a long table in the front of the class. The classroom slowly started to fill up as more students started to trickle in. A chubby Hufflepuff boy approached him, awkwardly asking, “Mind if I sit here?”

 _He could be a second Mycroft if he was more arrogant and power-hungry_ , Sherlock thought, giving a cool nod towards the boy. The Hufflepuff relaxed, as if he was afraid that Sherlock'd say no. _Probably because he's been turned down already._ Sure enough, there were other students glancing towards their direction scornfully.

The boy turned towards him, nervously fiddling with his glasses. “I'm Mike Stamford. Nice to meet you.” He extended his arm.

Sherlock eyed the fleshy arm for ad before extending his own and gingerly shook it. “Sherlock Holmes. Pleasure.”

The heavy double doors slammed shut, quieting the class. A small, robed figure with a disproportionally-ridiculous pointed hat swept down the aisle and disappeared behind the podium, only to reappear with his hat pushed up, teetering on an unstably-tall stack of books balanced precariously on a stool.

“Welcome to Charms class; I am Professor Flitwick,” he trilled. “Now, as first years, many of you have not yet been introduced to Charms...” Sherlock rolled his eyes and tuned them out. Dull. An introductory speech was too trivial to concern himself with.

The young Ravenclaw glanced at Mike. Might as well practice his deducing skills. Mike was the youngest child in his family and had been spoiled rotten with pastries and sweets. His mother was strict and had connections with the staff, making him guilty and paranoid about cheating on the diet she put him on, judging from his twitching fingers and a scrape of chocolate on his fingernail. Perhaps she was particularly chummy with Professor Flitwick. The lining of his robes were over-embroidered, meaning that he came from a posh family, but his accent suggested otherwise, so he spent some time with someone of the working class growing up. His mother disapproves of his accent, however, and demands that he correct it, making him afraid to speak. He had low self-esteem and trouble making friends, which meant that he clung onto anyone that showed any bit of kindness to him...which now included Sherlock.

Suddenly, the doors swung open, banging against the walls and cutting off Flitwick. The whole class turned over to the flustered girl standing in the doorway.

“I'm sorry,” she stammered meekly, “I got lost. I'm sorry.”

Professor Flitwick glanced at his roll sheet. “Molly Hooper, I presume?” She nodded and slipped into the only other empty seat in the room: the one next to Sherlock. She glanced at Sherlock fleetingly, quickly turning away when he met her gaze, her light brown ponytail whipping back.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Oh, great, another one. Well, maybe she could be useful. Professor Flitwick continued on his lecture, and Sherlock resumed his deductions. He turned his attentions to Molly, who was purposely looking away, blushing scarlet.

Her robes were second-hand, so her family was far from wealthy, but they weren't purchased second-hand, as they were fitted for a boy who was slightly taller than her and on the inside cover of her  _Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ was inscribed with an  _Andrew Hooper_ , so probably an older brother – could be extended family but unlikely. She was an introvert and didn't have any friends besides her older brother, who was probably around fourteen, judging by her robes and the textbook. Molly had cried recently, probably because her brother didn't want her around him at school and wouldn't help her find her classrooms – ah, so she was crying while wandering down the corridors. The fact that he associated very little with here meant that he was most likely in another House, so he could get away with pretending that she didn't exist. Her mother was a Muggle – a single mum – so she had never been exposed to much magic until now.

Molly peeked over at him and noticed that he was analyzing her.  _She'll interpret that as interest_ , Sherlock realized, mentally cringing.

Sure enough, she timidly smiled and stuck out her hand. “I'm Molly Hooper.” Sherlock nodded curtly, ignoring her hand, and turned away. It was best not to get too friendly.

“Now,” Flitwick finished, “everyone turn in your books to page 7. Let's start on basic wand movements. It's important to do exactly as I say, as spells can go wrong easily in an endless number of ways. Now, repeat after me. Swish and flicker! Good, now practice that for the next couple of minutes.”

The class filled up with chatter once more. Sherlock, of course, blocked it all out, focusing on mastering the wand movement, which took him just over a minute. He glanced at Mike, who was swinging his wand dangerously and Molly, who was gripping hers too tightly, and sighed, resuming his swish-and-flickering. This was going to be so dull; if only something more challenging would come along.

*

The hour passed painfully for Sherlock. Professor Flitwick had let them begin on the Hover Charm with feathers, which Sherlock mastered with great ease, earning 10 house points for Ravenclaw. He had spent the rest of the period levitating his textbook up and down, ignoring the calamity that broke out when a boy had swung his wand too hard, and it hit Molly in the eye (Dull, although he had looked up to assess that she was not, in fact, “going to go blind.”). Their only homework was to practice, meaning for Sherlock that there was none. Homework was disgustingly tedious, anyways.

The first years had a free period next, but Sherlock didn't know where the Gryffindor Common Room was. He could always ask Mycroft, he supposed, but he wasn't about to resort to that Instead, he returned to the dorm that he shared with three other boys and set up an experiment with fresh owl droppings, which he hid in the corner beside his bed, so it wouldn't be disturbed. If only the wizarding world would appreciate Muggle sciences as much as he did.

Sherlock cracked open his copy of  _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_ in the meantime. Judging from their first lesson, at the rate they were going, it would be April before they got to the Fire-Making Spell, which would have to suffice as a Bunsen burner for now.

*

Sherlock flinched, startled, when the bell rung, interrupting his studies; he had lost track of time. He had Transfiguration next, which, he thought as serotonin coursed through his veins, he had with John. Sherlock quickly navigated the winding corridors to McGonagall's classroom and picked a seat near the back, eagerly waiting for John.  _John's probably wandering the hallways, lost,_ he thought, sniggering quietly as he pictured his friend discovering for the first time that staircases could move. Oh, John.

His smile slid off his face, however, when John finally arrived...with a girl by his side. She was smiling too much, he thought, narrowing his eyes. Dull. John spotted him and made his way over, but the girl followed him.

“Hey, Sherlock. This is-” he started to say, but the young Ravenclaw cut him off before he could finish.

“Did you get lost?!” he demanded. John looked surprised for a moment before sliding into a sheepish grin.

“Yeah, I did,” he admitted, sliding into the empty seat beside Sherlock, “but Sarah here noticed and grabbed me in the nick of time before I got  _too_ lost.”

Sarah stuck her hand out at Sherlock. “Sarah, Sarah Sawyer.” John glanced pointedly at his friend before he grudgingly stuck out his own.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said icily. Sarah slid into the seat by John's right and beamed.

“It's just that I noticed that he was a Gryffindor too, you know, and I knew he was also a first-year, so when I saw that he was going the wrong way, I chased after him,” she babbled on, trying to explain as she smiled warmly –  _too_ warmly – at John. Sherlock's eyes narrowed even further.

“How did you know that he was a first-year? He could've just been short for his age,” Sherlock challenged. John frowned at him.

“Um, well, I guess I just remembered seeing him in Potions,” she said, unsure.

“Good thing, too,” John added, beaming encouragingly at her.

Sherlock opened his mouth but closed it after seeing the look on John's face. “How interesting,” he finally said, sounding as uninterested as can be.

Just then, the door slammed shut, breaking up the awkward silence between them. Professor McGonagall swept into the room.

“Transfiguration,” she began, triggering at least half the class – including Sherlock – to zone out, as they were expecting a long, monotonous speech. They snapped back to attention, however, when she rapped her wand against her desk.

“As I was saying,” she continued, “Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.” She then flicked her wand just over her pupils' heads, causing a mass outbreak – excluding Sherlock, who was staring forward, unimpressed – of shrieking clamor as a row of books turned into a small swarm of bumblebees, scattering every which way until Professor McGonagall transformed them back into books with a wide weep of her wand.

The class stared alertly at her, hanging onto her every word, and Sherlock, impressed by the methods she employed to commandeer their attention, mentally applauded her. Yet, the class, cave for Sherlock, soon deflated as she quickly ordered “Quills out!” to begin taking notes. Never one to waste time, her lecture was to the point, and the first-years were then given the task to transfigure a match into a needle.

“So, John, how was Potions? Did you enjoy Snape?” Sherlock smirked, striking up a conversation. He frowned at his match, which was only halfway transfigured, with one end still blunt and wooden. John looked like he was having trouble with his, swinging more wildly as his frustration mounted.

“Er, it was alright. Snape seems rather... _ harsh _ ,” he said mildly as Sherlock corrected the way he was holding his wand.

“I heard that his class is always really difficult, and Snape's rather scary, don't you think?” Sarah pipped in.

There was a slight pause before Sherlock spoke again. “So,  _ John _ ,” he inquired innocently, emphasizing his friend's name, “have you been near any staircases lately?”

*

The class ended, signaling that it was time for lunch. Sherlock quickly grabbed John by the arm, dragging him out of the classroom.

“Hang on, let's wait for Sarah,” John protested, causing Sherlock to drop his arm like it was a hot iron.

“What for?”

“Well, for starters, she's my friend.”

“Oh, John, so quickly loyal,” Sherlock scoffed, “She'll just feel excluded. Best leave her out in the first place.”

“Sherlock, I can have other friends, okay? I don't need your consent. I'm going to have lunch with Sarah whether you like it or not!”

“Fine!” Sherlock huffed. He stalked off, feeling a sense of infuriating betrayal. John wordlessly watched him leave, confused.


	4. Being Sherlock's Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is a difficult person to be friends with, but John manages. That doesn't mean, however, that their relationship is the smoothest. Yet, fighting with Sherlock is like fighting with a brick wall; he may be a genius, but feelings are definitely not his forte.

 Sherlock sat alone at the Ravenclaw table, poking unhappily at his empty plate for all of five minutes before leaving. Mycroft anxiously watched his younger brother leave from the Hufflepuff table before turning towards the Gryffindor table to where John was surrounded by a cluster of new friends, chattering happily – too happily to be genuine – and purposely ignoring Sherlock, although he did glance involuntarily in the Ravenclaw's direction out of the corner of his eye a few times. Mycroft shook his head, mentally tutting his younger brother.

“Apologies, my dear Anthea,” he said to the Head Girl seated next to him, excusing himself from the table, “but I have to bid you adieu for now to chase after my younger brother,” he grimaced and added, “But I should be back so do make sure that the house elves don't clear my plate for me?” He strolled down the rows of tables leisurely until he was out of sight, tripping over his feet a little in the most undignified manner as he chased after his brother.

“Well, hello there, brother dearest. I see you've had a minor strop with young Watson?” Mycroft said, straightening his tie.

“Mycroft, taking time out of your busy schedule from your most beloved to stick your nose into my business, I see.”

The elder Holmes bristled. “Never mind Greg and I, I'm here to speak with you about your falling out with young John.”

“Actually, I was talking about food, but that's nice to know, too.” Sherlock smirked smugly. “Who's Greg? Lestrade will be most disappointed, you know, based on the way his pupils dilate when he looks at you, as well as the quickening of his pulse, and the way he hangs onto your every word. Not to mention the slight corresponding creases in your robes after your free periods and the fact that he smells faintly of pastries.”

“Greg is Lestrade! That's his name!”

Sherlock blinked, surprised. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Mycroft took a deep breath, closing his eyes, composing himself. Sherlock's behavior had rapidly declined in recent years, quickly progressing from innocently impish to infuriatingly vexatious, ever since Mycroft had been forced to break it to him that being a pirate was not a legitimate career choice. When he reopened them, however, Sherlock was already skittering away. Mycroft quickly grabbed onto Sherlock's scarf (He had absolutely refused to wear a tie, and his ratty scarf was close enough to house colors.), causing the young Ravenclaw to lurch backwards.

“Get off me, Fatcroft!” Sherlock shouted petulantly, his dark curls bouncing wildly as he attempted to squirm out of his older brother's grip.

“Sherlock Holmes, do grow up for once. If you keep this up, not even John Watson will want to be around you!” Mycroft could tell that he had gone too far when a wounded look flickered briefly on his brother's face before being replaced with a stubborn anger. Still, it had needed to be said.

“I don't need friends! Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Even you, the _great_ Sherlock Holmes, need friends, Sherlock. John will make other friendships, but he'll always come back to you. Just let him me.”

“Piss off!” Sherlock snarled, finally ripping free. He dashed off, but this time, Mycroft let him. The elder Holmes stood there for a moment, shaking his head, before returning back to the Great Hall alone.

*

John contemplated what Mycroft had said to him as they were exiting the Great Hall. He had noticed the older boy pointedly looking at him before disappearing after Sherlock, filling the first-year with relief; it was hard work pretending not to see both of the Holmes brothers. John could practically feel their stares boring into him, like unwanted itches.

Yet, the Gryffindor hadn't seen him return. He had walked out of the Great Hall surrounded by a pack of his fellow housemates when a pale hand wrapped around his shoulder, startling him. The Head Boy had quickly apologized to the other first-years for borrowing him and pulled him aside to speak to him about Sherlock. John snorted; he really should've expected it. It was too out of character for Mycroft to leave the table without finishing his lunch, not to even mention missing desert; brotherly love only went so far.

“Sherlock may be frustrating, but he doesn't mean to be. He's simply unaccustomed to sharing you, you have to understand,” Mycroft had said, looking down into John's eyes.

John rolled his eyes. “Mycroft, with all due respect, I've known your brother for years; I live next door, remember? I know what he's like; I know who he is. That doesn't mean that he's automatically excused for everything he does. He's going to have to learn how to share me. Just because he's known me the longest doesn't mean that it's always going to be just him and me. You can tell him that, if you'd like,” John told him crossly.

“John, he won't listen to me; the only one whose thoughts he values is you. You're his only friend; before you, he was diagnosed as a sociopath by several child psychologists. Mummy was delighted when the moving van pulled up next door, and Sherlock seemed to show interest in you as a human being, not just another test subject. You're the only friend he's ever made,” Mycroft said in his slow, patronizing voice, as if John couldn't understand.

“Good grief, Mycroft!” John exclaimed sarcastically. “What did you do? Nicked all his Smurfs, broke his Action Man?”

The elder Holmes glowered at him. “It was an accident. How was I supposed to know he left them on the stairs?” he finally said. “Anyway, do forgive Sherlock, won't you? He's too stubborn to admit that he misses you himself.” Mycroft twirled his umbrella, resting it on his shoulder, and strolled away.

“The great Sherlock Holmes has to apologize, too, you know!” John called after him, but Mycroft made no indication that he had heard him. John ground his teeth and resumed walking in the other direction. He was sick of the Holmes brothers and all their mind games.

*

For first-years, class resumed at two, meaning that they had another free period after lunch. Gryffindors and Ravenclaws had Herbology together next. Sherlock, of course, was amongst one of the earliest to arrive, but John had gotten sidetracked in the Gryffindor common room, chatting with his fellow first-years. They had all heard the bell but ignored it, lingering behind for a couple minutes and then forgetting entirely.

John found Anderson and Donovan to be tolerable, if not decent, company, although their obvious contempt for Sherlock and the fact that they seemed to go out of their way to scorn him annoyed John after a while. That didn't stop him, however, from losing track of time until Sarah glanced at the clock and exclaimed. They all scrambled down the halls, one after another, and made it to Herbology with half a minute to spare.

However, most of the seats were taken, except for the one by Sherlock, John noticed, his heart sinking. Resigned, he walked up to his best friend. He had pushed Sherlock out of his mind for the last two hours or so, and he had managed to forget about him for a while, but all the confusion and awkwardness suddenly returned.

“Er, is this seat taken?” he asked stiffly.

Sherlock looked up with that uninterested yet disappointed look that always made John feel inadequate. “Why, yes, of course. Isn't it obvious?” he said with a straight face, cocking an eyebrow. John playfully shoved him.

“Oi, you,” John forced a fond tone, sitting down as Professor Sprout closed the door. The young Gryffindor watched idly, not particularly interested as she showed them a few different magical plants. He had never been one for gardening.

“Are you ever going to apologize?” he finally asked. His best friend frowned, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.

“What for?” John sighed.

“For someone with such a large brain, you really fail at grasping the complexities of human relationships,” he told Sherlock. The Ravenclaw considered that briefly.

“Listen, John, you can socialize with all the ordinary imbeciles here if that's what you want. I'm not going to stop you, but you can't expect me to be polite or anything to them.” He made a sour face.

“Hang on, Sherlock, I'm not asking for your permission; I'm asking for an apology.”

“I wasn't giving you permission; I was simply acknowledging the fact.”

“Right. Good.”

“Good,” Sherlock echoed.

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Right, okay. Thanks, then?” John said tentatively. He supposed that this was as close to an apology that he was going to get from Sherlock Holmes. In his mind, this probably constituting to one of his very adequate apologies that came few and far between.

“Well, um, I'm sorry, too. You know, for what happened earlier,” John added. Sherlock gave no sign of having heard him, but John was used to it. He was like that sometimes, when he didn't know how to respond. If he really wasn't listening to him, his eyes would be more concentrated, more vacant, and he would perhaps be talking out loud, not exactly to John but not exactly to himself, either. Sometimes, he'd be  _at his mind palace_ , whatever that meant, or absentmindedly playing the violin, his fingers moving down imaginary strings even if the instrument wasn't physically there. John had no doubt that his friend had brought his beloved instrument, and he wholeheartedly pitied Sherlock's poor roommates who probably didn't know what they were in for for the next seven years.

He watched him for a while before turning back to Professor Sprout. Sherlock was Sherlock, and John couldn't stay angry at him for long, even if he tried. He may be an immature, disagreeable know-it-all, but he was always going to be his best friend, and John was always going to forgive him. It was a thought that pained him so.


	5. The Death of Carl Powers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are few things that can keep Sherlock's brilliantly annoying brain occupied for long. One of them is a good mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry; I'm horrible at updating. I've actually had this written for months. I just never posted it.  
> You have permission to flog me.  
> Although, I can't see why anyone would enjoy this that much to keep up with it.  
>  **10/8/2012:** I meant to write this when I uploaded, but I forgot. I've twisted the timelines of a few things. Carl Powers actually dies a few years after, and Charlie and Bill should be a little younger but they're not.  
>  Although, as I am writing this, I cannot recall if Charlie or Bill have even been included in this chapter.

 Months passed quickly. John was particularly struggling in Potions. Usually, first-year teachers were supposed to be milder in nature, whether out of insecurity or unfamiliarity with students; Snape was not the case. He was harsher in both grading and personality than any Muggle teacher that John had ever encountered. While Sherlock had him only twice a week compared to John's thrice (First-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs had Potions first period Tuesdays and Thursdays while Gryffindors and Slytherins had it Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.), the Ravenclaw was, of course, excelling in all his classes.

His friend had attempted to tutor him in the treacherous subject, but it was more practical than theory, and there was nothing even Sherlock could do. Transfiguration and Herbology were a bit better for the Gryffindor, as he had his best friend in class with him to help – although Sherlock's idea of _help_ always came hand-in-hand with his sharp, biting tongue.

The young Gryffindor particularly enjoyed Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts; the defensive spells and softer charm work sat well with him. And while he had no interest in Astronomy, the class was easy enough for the Gryffindor. As for History of Magic, well, John was only passing because of Sherlock's assistance.

John didn't see the Ravenclaw as much as he did at home, but outside of class, Sherlock still sat with him for meals three times a day, rarely eating anything except for coffee and tea, and randomly popped up in the Gryffindor common room from time to time. John didn't even want to know how his friend knew the ever-changing passwords.

The classes didn't seem to captivate Sherlock as much as they did for John. Sherlock, of course, coursed through the classes with ease, and he seemed extremely bored with Hogwarts. John supposed that perhaps it was because he'd been surrounded by magic all his life and probably borrowed Mycroft's textbooks during the summer; nothing seemed to challenge the young Ravenclaw, not even flying.

First-years had a handful of flying lessons during the fall. John didn't get to see Sherlock for himself – as Gryffindors were always paired with Slytherins and Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs – but the Muggleborn had made a friend in Hufflepuff – Mike Stamford – who had filled him in. According to Mike, Sherlock seemed to show no interest in flying, yet he still excelled in it, remaining in character. He was among one of the few in their group that knew how to fly correctly, and he outshone everyone, as usual. John figured that he probably learned on one of his parent's broomsticks, as Mycroft obviously didn't fly; it was still weird for him to think of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes as wizards. He'd grown up knowing them, and he'd never received any indication of them being anything else other than his posh, yet ordinary, neighbors.

Meanwhile, while the young Gryffindor had never flown on broomstick before in his life, he quickly learned and enjoyed flying greatly. At first, he'd been skeptical and was sure that Madam Hooch was just taking the piss out of them, but to his amazement, she had soared through the sky, flying above the tall, stone towers, and he had eagerly hung onto her every word after that, excited about learning how to fly. John wanted to try out for the Quidditch team next year, but brooms were expensive, and he doubted that his parents could afford to buy him one. Still, he still felt a deep sense of yearning and disappointment as he watched the Quidditch games from the stands, masking it by cheering as much as the next person. Sherlock didn't bother to show up to the games most of the time, and when he did, it was to perform psychological experiments on his classmates.

Yet, his brilliant mind wasn't truly occupied, despite all the mischief he caused, often landing himself in detention for experiments gone haywire. John missed seeing his blue eyes light up and the gears in his brain visibly whirling as he computed solutions and deviated plans. It was a terrible tragedy in Hogwarts that finally restored the spark of life to his friend – the death of Carl Powers, a fourth-year Gryffindor from Sussex.

The whole school had been gathered in the Great Hall one night, the usually colorful banners charmed an ominous black. Dumbledore stood in front of the mass of sleepy students, his grave expression a sharp contrast to his usual calm demeanor.

“Young Carl Powers was found tonight in the swimming pool,” he began. Apparently, he hadn't been just kidding about the hidden swimming pool. “He was having spasms in the water due to unknown reasons. By the time of discovery, it was too late; even the Healers from St. Mungo's couldn't save him. A funeral service will be held in the morning; all classes tomorrow will be canceled. The hidden swimming pool is off-limits for an indefinite period of time.”

A somber silence filled the room as they absorbed his words. John didn't know Carl, other than that he was the Keeper for Gryffindor's Quidditch team, but his shock slowly dissipated, leaving him feeling morose. No one said anything; no one was sure of what to say. They just stood there soberly, silently.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke again. “Carl was an energetic, hardworking boy with a bright future ahead of him. His loss will be felt in the hearts of us all.” John wasn't sure where it started, but one by one, they all raised their wands in honor of Carl. Quietly, they were lead back to their individual common rooms, each with their head bowed.

*

The following morning, they were all gathered outside. A simple stone casket had been conjured, and a string of Carl Powers's closest friends carried it outside. A young boy, much taller than average for his age, was lying in the casket, looking as if he was simply sleeping except all the color in his face was drained. He was fully dressed, except for his feet, which were bare. A hand reached out from the crowd and grabbed John's arm, causing him to flinch. Out emerged a manically excited Sherlock.

“He's fully dressed, in the clothes he had in the locker room, obviously, except for his shoes. His feet are bare. But he must've had shoes; he wouldn't walk all the way from wherever he was in the castle to the pool barefoot. So where are they?” Sherlock said eagerly in a loud whisper as one of the redheaded boys that they saw at the train station, who John recognized as the Gryffindor seeker, gave his eulogy. A few people nearby turned, but they all looked away quick enough except for Sally Donovan, who moved closer to them.

“You're supposed to be paying your respects, but instead, you look absolutely delighted that there's a dead body up there. In fact, I'd say that you get off on it, even!” she hissed.

“There's something not right about this. Stop boring me and think for a second! Someone must have taken his shoes on purpose; they said he was alone so no one would've taken them by accident. If they were there, they'd be on the corpse. But why? Why would you sneak into the locker room to take a dead boy's shoes? Obvious, isn't it? Carl Powers was murdered!” Sherlock announced enthusiastically.

Sally looked like the Ravenclaw had just punched her in the face. “He died because he drowned, not because he was murdered, you freak!”

“All the facts are there; you're just too stupid to look. He was an accomplished swimmer, so why would he suddenly drown? They said fits, but people just don't have sudden fits for no reason. There must be evidence on the shoes; that's why whoever killed him took them!” Their volumes were increasing louder and louder.

“Not now, you two. We're in the middle of a – ” but before John could finish his sentence, Professor McGonagall interrupted him.

“Mr. Watson! Is there something you'd like to share that's so important that it couldn't wait until after Mr. Powers's funeral? Ten points from Gryffindor and detention with me, young man! Honestly, have some respect; this is a funeral, not a Quidditch game!” she admonished him sternly. A sea of heads turned towards him.

John shrank back meekly, mortified. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered. He shot Sherlock and the curly-haired girl both dirty looks, and while Donovan had the decency to look away, Sherlock didn't even seem fazed. In fact, the Ravenclaw was too lost in his own brilliancy that he didn't even seem to notice John at all. John sighed to himself. He should've known to run the other way the first day he moved next door when the boy answered the door with a skull in one hand and the lower body of a frog in the other.

*

“John, we have to go to the pool to search for evidence,” Sherlock said suddenly, popping up from behind John's bed in the Gryffindor dormitory. John jumped, dropping his wand.

“Where did you come from?!” he exclaimed. Sherlock looked at him blankly.

“From behind your – ”

“Never mind that,” John said hastily. “Look, Sherlock, this isn't one of your games, okay? A boy just died. Do you understand that?”

“Yes. That's why we _have_ to gather evidence. They must've missed something.”

John sighed. “Well, then go on without me,” he told him, resigned. There was no point in arguing with Sherlock over something like this. “I have to serve that detention with McGonagall, remember?” Sherlock followed him into the common room.

“What detention?”

John sighed again. It was becoming more and more of a regular occurrence. “Never mind that. Look, Sherlock, just go, okay?” he told him wearily. The Ravenclaw watched him leave the common room, slightly bewildered.

When the young Gryffindor returned several hours later, Sherlock was still there, perched on a couch, chatting with someone that John did not recognize. _That's weird. I've never seen Sherlock voluntarily talking to anyone that isn't me or Greg, unless he's insulting them_ , he thought.He eyed them warily, making sure that Sherlock _wasn't_ insulting the older boy, before approaching the two.

“Hello, Sherlock. Are you going to introduce me to your, er, friend?”

“Oh, John, this is one of Carl's friends. We're just talking about how devastating it is that he died. They've been family friends for years; why, Mummy always invites them for Christmas dinners.”

The other boy narrowed his eyes. “His family came over to mine last Christmas.”

“Yes, they declined her offer last year,” Sherlock said hastily.

John frowned. “How come you never mentioned that you and Carl knew each other?” he asked.

“Didn't I? I thought you knew.” John was about to ask how would he possibly know that, but the look on Sherlock's face silenced him.

“Now, I was thinking it was a bit strange that they dressed him in all his clothes except for his shoes,” Sherlock began. John suddenly understood.

“Oh, yeah, I noticed that too,” the older boy said, nodding. “I mean, now that you mention it, when he left, he had his trainers on and everything.”

Sherlock leaned forward eagerly. “Could you describe what his trainers looked like?” he pressed.

“Oh, erm, well, they were white. They were quite big because, you know, Carl had really big feet. He's had them for as long as I remember, but you wouldn't know by the way he took care of them. Carl always had to scrub his shoes every time we wanted to go to Hogsmeade or race around the Quidditch pitch or something,” he said fondly.

“Excellent. Yes, that was Carl. Never went anywhere without his shoes.” Sherlock gave an odd, breathy laugh that was clearly forced.

“Um, yeah. Right. Listen, I'd love to stay and chat about Carl's shoes, but I have a Quidditch game tomorrow, and I need some shut-eye.”

“Of course. John and I need to go, too.”

John blinked. “We do?”

“Yes. Don't you have that detention to do?”

“I just came back from it,” he answered through gritted teeth.

The older boy looked at him again. “Wait, it was you during the funeral?”

*

The next day at lunch, Sherlock joined his friend at the Gryffindor table as usual. John had brought along his Potions essay, scratching out more than he was writing. He was going to fail for sure.

The young Gryffindor looked up when he heard Sherlock say, “Hey, Lestrade, Carl Powers was in the year below you, wasn't he? Did you know him at all?”

“Well, we weren't friends at all. I certainly docked enough points from him this term only to cause us to lose the House Cup to Slytherin, though,” the prefect answered, lowering his voice as if he were afraid Carl would rise from the dead to haunt him. It was a legitimate fear, actually, with the ghosts of Hogwarts and all, but Carl would've reappeared by now had he chosen that path.

“Oh? For what, exactly?” Sherlock asked, interested.

“Well, I really shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but he was a merciless bully. He always played cruel pranks and whatnot on any underclassmen that got in his way.”

“Was there anyone that he targeted specifically?”

“Try nearly a third of everyone at this school.” Lestrade shuffled uncomfortably. “Is this an interrogation?” he joked.

Sherlock shrugged. “You could call it that, I suppose.”

The prefect stared at him. “Surely you don't think that he was murdered,” Lestrade finally said.

“Just because he had a weird fit in the water doesn't mean that he couldn't have been killed, Lestrade.”

John sighed. “Oh, not this again.”


End file.
